The Sunday Memory Drawer - Baseball in the Neighborhood

Okay, where did I leave off last Sunday with my tales of baseball as a kid?

I was in my backyard throwing a rubber ball against the brick stoop, conjuring up an imaginary play-by-play of some mythical game involving the New York Mets.

Well, the good news is that I wasn't stuck in a solitary environment for long.  Once I hit the age of eleven or so, we embraced the playing of the sport in a much bigger way.

We went to our own personal stadium for our own nightly edition of baseball.

In the photo above, you see a townhouse complex in the background.  That, gang, was our vacant lot.    Firestone Stadium, if you will, since the tire store was already a fixture on the same block years ago.   This ugly patch of land was surrounded by tall weeds.  It was surrounded in the back by a fence that prevented folks from falling onto the New Haven Railroad train tracks that cut through the city of Mount Vernon.  On another side, the border of the lot was comprised of a warehouse for Sunshine Biscuits and a Carvel Ice Cream stand which later morphed into an independent custard supplier called "La Creme."

In the middle of this mess of broken down buildings and weedy grass was an area of dirt.   A perfect fit for a make-shift baseball diamond.

And our nightly home on summer evenings.

Our routine was pretty simple.  The neighborhood chums and I all wrapped up dinner by around 6PM.  Stomachs full, we'd gather and march ourselves down to the lot for a pick-up game of baseball.  Or softball, in our case.  We had about a two-hour window of playing time.  By 8PM, darkness would set it and we'd have to wrap up the competition for the evening.  Besides, we all needed to be back on our block by around 8:30PM for the 8;43PM arrival of the Good Humor Truck.

Our group varied by day.  My best neighborhood buddy, Leo.  His brothers.  Some other urchins with a myriad of monikers.  Fred, Dominick, Gary, Glenn, Johnny.  It wasn't necessary to pull together eighteen players that would fill out two baseball teams.  We certainly didn't have critical mass.  Nor did that swatch of baseball dirt have the room for more than five or six kids in the field.

At the far end of the patch of dirt, there was a huge boulder stuck in the ground.  This served as the home plate area and the "dugout" for whichever team was batting.  The hitting group also needed to supply a catcher.  Without one, the first pitch would be thrown into the weeds and lost for posterity.

Game unfortunately over.

Since there was a major four lane street that served as our "outfield," we had to establish some strange rules.  Kids were liable to hit the cover off the ball and send it into traffic, which might ultimately kill the one of us retrieving it.  So, if you hit it really, really far, you were automatically out.  A homerun was awarded if you hit the ball and it landed directly on the sidewalk before the big street.  It was harder than you thought.  Arguments ensued.  We were ideal candidates for the implementation of a replay camera.

Of course, invariably, some jerk would clobber the ball and send it flying into a phalanx of automobiles.  The speed of a car would grab hold of the trajectory and, before you knew it, the ball was five blocks away.  Or down a sewer.

Game unfortunately over.

My friends on the block were pretty athletic so games were competitive. Leo, embracing his Italian heritage,  fancied himself as the next Ron Santo so he always played third base and did it flawlessly.  Others were scattered around the infield.  Usually, the kid stationed in the outfield was the speediest.  He'd be the one chasing the ball around the cars.  Ideally, this guy was not only the fastest, but the most expendable.

There was, however, one link in the chain.  Around the patch of dirt were all these pretty decent athletes.

And then there was me.

Uncoordinated.  Clumsy.  A little chunky.  And slow as shit.

The solo baseball games in my yard had prepared me for nothing.    But I wanted badly to fit in and be part of the big doings every night at Firestone Stadium.

Luckily, my batting eye was quick to develop.  After a while, I became a decent hitter.  Not Mickey Mantle, but hardly Mickey Mouse either.  I could take a turn at the plate and hardly embarrass myself.

In the field, however?  I was a mess.  There was just too much to do.  Bending.  Running.  Catching with two hands.  Throwing.  Way too complicated for me.

One day, I took a turn as the pitcher.  At least, I could toss a ball underhand and then let my defense do all the hard work.  I learned to put some spin on the ball.  I figured out how to arc the ball to my advantage.  Okay, it wasn't exactly a Hall of Fame career.  But, pitching soon became my forte.  And it was a heck of a lot safer than chasing a ball and a bus down First Street.

As I got older by a year or two, I got a little more agile.  Gee, maybe I could play the field someplace?  I was one of the tallest kids there so first base was an obvious spot.  You see, any high throws from the infielders might not necessarily sail over my head and into the weeds.  For once, one of my physical attributes gave me an advantage.  My height would prevent the ball from getting lost.

Of course, there was the day where a throw to first base was obscenely high.  The ball even missed the weeds.

There was a house next to the lot.

There was a kitchen window in the house next to the lot.

CRRRRAACK!  SMMMMASSSHHH!

And we all heard the same voice in our heads.

"RUN!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Game definitely over.

Dinner last night:  Bratwurst from Steingarten.